Klokwork Brutality
by CrystallicSky
Summary: Because in Mordhaus, brutality DOES happen like Klokwork. N/C, ONESHOT


**Klokwork Brutality**

**By: CrystallicSky**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Metalocalypse or any of its characters, nor do I make any profit or attempt to with the writing of this or any of my other pieces.**

Warnings: Mention of the Branding of the Gear, reference to canonical instances of death/murder, homosexuality, language, and sexual implication.

**--**

"So. Um…do you have one?"

Charles was very much used to this by now. The way Nathan's mind worked was different than others. Often, he would be thinking about something and then say a part of it aloud, as if whoever he was speaking to had been listening to all of his thoughts up until that point and knew precisely what he meant.

On the bright side, the frontman would always be prepared to hold a conversation with a telepath.

Nonetheless, the manager dutifully inquired, "Do I have one _what,_ Nathan?"

Clarity flickered in green eyes as Nathan belatedly realized he hadn't specified anything in his question. "Oh…um, y'know…a brand."

Some might've needed further clarification at that point, but for Charles, it was unneeded. After all, the sacred gear-brand that signified a Dethklok employee was no secret to the inhabitants of Mordhaus.

"Yes, Nathan," the older man casually informed, "I do have one."

"…Whoa," the singer muttered after a moment of thought. "Seriously?" In his dealings with the manager, Nathan had gotten a distinct air of submission in everything the brunette did; had pegged Ofdensen as the nonconfrontational type. While he pressured the band to work on new material often, he never forcefully escorted them to the recording room; while he disapproved of many of the band's business ventures, he almost never outright denied them; and of course, even when the band was obviously wrong or willfully ignorant of something, there was no effort to force them to understand it.

Overall, Charles seemed anything but the 'hard' type, and the frontman had honestly been expecting to hear that the manager had used his rank in the Dethklok hierarchy to avoid having to get branded as all other employees were.

Huh, Nathan thought, the things you find out about someone once you start fucking the guy.

"Yes, Nathan, I can assure you I have received the Branding of the Gear." Charles's tone was sharp and stilted as he said it, the tone he usually reserved for times when he was annoyed or in his natural 'all business' mode (it was only recently that Nathan had discovered that the man had more tones than just the one). At the moment, it was likely a result of both annoyance _and_ business, as the manager was engrossed in his work (or trying to be) and here Nathan was bothering him with trivial questions.

"Why?" the frontman couldn't help but blurt out.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you get it? You probably didn't…have to, or anything," Nathan spoke.

"Yes, well…" The businessman paused momentarily, clearly trying to choose his next words carefully so as to get the point he wanted across. "Perhaps I wasn't _legally_ obligated to receive it," he said, "but…I feel I was at least on some level _morally_ obligated."

The singer's brow crinkled in lack of understanding. "What's that mean?" he demanded, hating that he couldn't comprehend what the man he was involved with was trying to tell him.

This time, Charles looked up from his desk. "I belong to you, Nathan," he said firmly, without a hint of hesitation. "I belong to Dethklok. You own me: it's only fair that my physical form express as much; the exact purpose of the gear brand."

God, was it staggering to hear such a thing said aloud; that they _owned_ at least one human being as if he were simply a possession. Of course, the frontman was aware that millions of other people could be considered or even thought of themselves as property of Dethklok, but Charles was different. He wasn't just some regular jackoff that nobody gave a flying fuck about, he was _Charles._

It was weird to try and lump him in with the other loyal employees and brainless fans.

"Did it hurt?" Nathan wondered next.

The manager snorted. "Oh, no," the older man denied, "it was simply a rod of white-hot metal searing into my bare flesh; didn't hurt a bit."

Nathan couldn't help but grin. "What would the guys think if they heard you cracking jokes? Your whole reputation as a robot would be, like…ruined."

Charles did something that he allowed very few to see him do: he chuckled. "I couldn't resist," he excused. "You were asking for it."

"Yeah, probably," the frontman conceded. "Seriously, though…what was it like? Did you do that whole…ceremony thing everybody else did?"

"No, Nathan," Charles assured, "mine was…a bit different."

Oh. Well, that was better. The singer couldn't really imagine Ofdensen doing that mass-branding thing, where he would be just another cog in the machine, so to speak.

Charles may have been nothing more than a gear, but he was at the very least a gear _of_ gears and the largest and most powerful of them. When he turned, everybody else turned with him or so help him, God…

"So, what?' Nathan gruffly questioned. "You had your own thing, or…?"

The manager obviously dismissed any hope of getting his work done. No matter how important the paperwork, after all, Nathan ranked above it as both a band-member and a partner. "Yes," he answered after a moment of hesitation, "it was a fairly private affair."

"How come we weren't invited?"

"You and the boys were occupied," Charles reminded. "I believe it was some argument about whether pickled corpses would still bleed. I didn't want to interrupt."

Nathan frowned. He had missed something like that just because of a stupid disagreement that he didn't even remember having?

"That sucks," he asserted. "You should've told us, I mean…the branding thing is totally metal. I would've gone. I don't know…about the guys, but…they probably would've, too." The other musicians had never shown any indication of particularly _liking_ Ofdensen, but if nothing else, Nathan doubted any of them would have passed up a chance to see the mousy, bespectacled manager in pain.

"Yes, well, regardless, the ceremony has passed, so it's a moot point, now," the older man pointed out.

"What happened, though?" the frontman insisted. "Tell me about it." Nathan didn't like that he had missed such a significant event in Charles's life: he wanted to hear about it, at the very least.

The manager sighed. "Must I?" he inquired.

"Yes," Nathan said immediately.

"There's not much to tell," Charles delegated. "It was all…fairly standard procedure for a branding."

"I don't care. Tell me anyway."

Another sigh. "I'm not sure what you want to hear…" The manager took one look at the firm stare his client was leveling at him, stating in no uncertain terms that he _was not_ weaseling out of this. "It was entirely private; just one of the professional branders and myself and in one of the rooms on an underground level."

Instantly, Nathan's mind began painting a picture of the event for him: a pitch black room with only Charles and a nameless hooded man holding a branding iron.

Brutal already.

"You weren't wearing the suit, were you?" For some reason, the singer just couldn't see that happening. Though Charles was almost never seen _out_ of the suit, it didn't seem to mesh with the concept of being branded.

"No, I wasn't," the business man dutifully assured. "In fact, from the waist up, I wasn't wearing anything at all."

Oh, there was a mental image: shirtless Charles. It was an incredibly gay and not very-metal-at-all thing to think, but Nathan thought it anyways: yum.

"Why no shirt?" he wondered, though his head was already protesting him asking that. Don't question it, the brain said, as far as we care he's shirtless; don't ruin that for us!

Fortunately, Charles did not then reveal that he had simply been joking and _was,_ in fact, wearing the suit at the time. "I couldn't very well get the brand with my shirt on," he explained. "I got mine on the lower back, not my neck."

In a moment of clarity, Nathan realized the symbolism behind the location. The other employees, who received the brand on their necks, were deeply rooted in the Dethklok empire. To try to leave it would result in the same thing as a break in the site of their brand: more likely than not, instant death.

Charles, on the other hand, was different. He wasn't just _rooted_ in the empire, he was one level on the hierarchy away from _being_ the empire. Dethklok was his work, his passion, his _life._ To leave it would be more than death, as would a break in the spine. It would mean paralysis; imprisonment in a lifeless body for the rest of his days: in other words, pure hell.

The picture in the frontman's mind grew about twenty times more awesome at that realization. Wanting to flesh it out more, he demanded, "So, were you kneeling, or…what?"

"To receive the brand?" Charles queried. "Yes…but not in the way you're thinking."

"Like how, then?" Nathan was truly eager to know at that point.

"I had to prostrate myself completely," the manager clarified. "Arms out in front of me, nose to the ground…you know."

"…why like that?" the singer wondered. "Couldn't you at least…y'know, have your arms closer to you?"

"No," Charles denied immediately. "If I had them close, I would've likely punctured myself in the eye with the dagger."

Green eyes blinked once. "Dagger?"

The businessman shrugged. "The whole ceremony was a visual metaphor," he said. "The actual branding signified your ownership; the kowtowing expressed my complete submission to your will and the commitment to always obey orders. As for the dagger, that symbolized my dedication to your protection by any means necessary. I would sooner slaughter the world with my bare hands before I let someone put you boys in harm's way or take you away from me."

Had Nathan not been deeply interested in what his lover was saying, he probably wouldn't have noticed the _incredibly_ slight tensing of Ofdensen's shoulders. As it was, he had been paying very close attention and despite what some thought, he really _wasn't_ all that stupid. "You just said something you shouldn't have," he deduced.

The proof was in the fact that Charles's hazel, bespectacled eyes immediately darted back to the paperwork on his desk at the accusation. "Perhaps," he noncommittally replied.

The lead singer frowned deeply, trying to make sense of things. _What_ in the manager's sentence could have been damning? What circumstances could he remember that might have expressly _made_ it damning?

It came to him in an instant and a shocking chill coursed his spine at the realization. "Melmord…" he began. "He…wasn't a pedophile, was he?"

"He may or may not have been," Charles casually admitted. "Whether he was or he wasn't, there was never any real proof of it."

"Did you get the Klokateers to…y'know…kill him?" This was highly disturbing to Nathan: Charles had had people they didn't like beaten before and even had annoying fans murdered for various reasons…but to think he'd given the order to kill someone they _liked…_

If Charles was one thing, it was firm and direct, particularly when he could no longer evade the truth. "I didn't _have_ him killed, Nathan," he said matter-of-factly, "I _killed_ him."

The frontman's eyes could've likely passed for saucers at that point. "No way," he muttered.

"To be fair," the manager continued, "he started it. He knew I fenced; he shouldn't have chosen that as the means for our death-match. Needless to say, I was the victor of that as I am sitting here talking to you while bits and pieces of Melmord's corpse are scattered about from the four-hundred-some foot fall off the dragon-head and consequent running over by the Dethtrain."

Nathan visibly shivered at the cool, casual declaration. Normally, death wouldn't faze him in the least but _Jesus,_ that was _Melmord_ that'd been killed! They _knew_ that guy; they'd _palled around_ with him, for God's sakes!

And furthermore, it was passive, business-minded, nonconfrontational Charles that was claiming to have murdered him in cold blood.

"Damn," the frontman blurted, feeling oddly breathless at the new information. Charles had _killed_ a man and lied straight to their faces about it; even gotten totally wasted and partied with them over it the next night. A thought came to him then: that was not the reaction someone had to their first kill. "How many have you…?"

"Thousands," the brunette said. "Millions if you count the people I've _had_ terminated."

"…Jesus," Nathan murmured, more shell-shocked than anything else at the moment.

"I don't do it for fun, Nathan," Charles spoke up, drawing the singer's attention immediately. "I do what I do for your sake; for the sake of Dethklok. There is and always will be a steady supply of people who would exploit you or see your empire ruined. It's because of me that those people haven't gotten to you, and if I have my say, they never will."

"But…Melmord-"

"Was totally incompetent," the businessman interrupted. "I kept very close tabs on him during his brief stay at Mordhaus. He had no legitimate background in law or economics, he didn't accomplish a single thing or even try to, and in fact, he spent most of his time getting high and 'palling around' with you boys. If he were in charge, you would all be financially ruined within hours and begging on the streets for spare change."

Nathan frowned. "I guess so…but did you have to _kill_ him?"

"Believe it or not, I wasn't planning to," Charles assured. "I was _planning_ on having him beaten _near_ death and then sent off to the furthest possible corner of the Earth. He then made the mistake of challenging me to a fencing match and…well."

The frontman nodded slowly. That actually made a lot of sense. Melmord was cool, but smart? Not really, or at least, he'd never seemed that way while they were hanging out. Challenging Ofdensen, even if he _hadn't_ known about the original manager's ability to kill in cold blood, was a pretty stupid thing to do; _just_ like Melmord.

"Does it bother you?" Charles wondered suddenly. "That I'm a murderer?"

Nathan thought about it: _did_ it bother him? His lover…the man that had pretty much built up his multitrillion-dollar business singlehandedly, made sure he and the guys were almost always kept happy, and prevented their own ignorance of the world from doing them in was a killer. He had taken the lives of other people repeatedly and continued to do so. And yet…

"No," the lead singer decided. "It's actually…pretty metal, now that I think about it. I mean, you don't just go around killing people, you kill the people that try to kill us or…y'know, fuck with us. So, that's good. And you're a suit, but not like some pencil-pushing suit. You _off_ people: that's kinda badass."

"So…?" Charles didn't finish his question, suggesting that he wanted a clearer statement of what Nathan thought of all this.

Abruptly, Nathan's mind shoved the mental picture from earlier to the forefront and he saw the manager at his branding ceremony (or what he pictured it to have been like, at least). The man was knelt upon the floor, head lowered and still as the branding iron was brought down upon his well-toned and muscular back. The sound of sizzling flesh was the only thing heard as Charles refused to make any noise to indicate his pain at the action. A sharp and wicked looking dagger was held symbolically in his outstretched hands and as the iron drew away from him, he looked up, eyeing the blade. Suddenly, the dagger in the frontman's mind's eye was coated in blood and gore and hazel eyes without the usual barrier of glass glowed red, something awful and feral and _brutal_ lurking in their depths.

Charles was a killer. He was a killer because Dethklok needed him to be; because _Nathan_ needed him to be, and he would do anything Nathan asked him to because Nathan _owned_ him, mind, body, and soul.

Having Charles as a lover and a manager, he realized, was quite a lot like having Death himself on a choke-chain.

"It doesn't bother me," he repeated aloud, both for Charles and for himself. "I don't care. Actually, it's…kinda hot."

The manager chuckled, rising from his desk and making his way over to the lounge chair upon which his client sat. To hell with the paperwork littering his desk; it could all be dealt with later.

"Hot, hmm?" He deftly straddled his lover's hips, placing his powerful, long-blood-soaked hands on the frontman's shoulders. "Well, Nathan, if you think it's so hot, then maybe, one of these days…"

The low, heated murmur of, "I'll let you _watch,"_ reached the lead singer's ears and he shuddered with the force of his lust.

After all, there really _was_ no better choice for the most brutal band in the world than the most brutal _manager_ in the world, and that was something Nathan could truly appreciate.

**--**

**A/N: Random plotbunny that DEMANDED to be written. As for why Nathan didn't already know about the brand, I kinda wrote this as if the two of them were new lovers, as in a kind of recent hookup, so there wouldn't have been too much time to explore each other's bodies or anything like that. They'd probably be limited to missionary and doggy-style, neither of which give much opportunity to look for gear-brands, especially if one is horny and not all that interested in doing so! XD**

**Anyways, I hope you liked the fic! :D**


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